Things He Doesn't Know
by shirleypositive72
Summary: Prequel to That Picture series. A challenge piece on voyeurism. Jane sees a different point of view . . .


I didn't mean to watch. Really, I didn't. I never intended to get trapped in this closet with no escape. Well, there technically might be a way to get out here, but not without letting Dean Winchester know I'd been snooping through his stuff, and that's just not going to happen. Not this day. Or any other, for that matter. I like life.

It started out innocently enough. I just wanted to borrow his whetstone. The good one, not the synthetic piece of crap he leaves laying out. He keeps his favorite stuff in his closet in the room he uses when he and Sam are here with Uncle Bobby and me. My favorite knife is hella dull, and only the best will do for this blade. He's let me borrow it for that purpose before. Dean's not usually whiny about people in his room as long as we stay out of his private shit, so I figured as long as I didn't screw up the stone and put it back where it belonged, he'd be fine.

But I got nosy.

There's just so much stuff in here. I just had to see all of it. Had to. I'm seventeen, standing in the private space of the object of every single romatic fantasy I've ever had. Of course, I had to look. At everything.

Dean flew through the door while I was on tip toe, pushing things back into place on the top shelf after rummaging in a box of pictures. I had just paused, crying in sympathy for what I saw in the picures and shame from looking at them, and had nearly decided to stop doing what even I knew was wrong, when the sound of the door hitting the wall shocked me into paralysis. He must think the house is empty.

It would have been bad enough had it just been Dean. I still wouldn't have come out, but I don't think my wait would have been as long as it has turned out to be. My sense of total mortification would have been absent. And the blindingly green envy running like liquid anger through my veins wouldn't be burning me from the inside out.

Holy hell, where did he find this skank? There must be a neverending parade of slutty bitches in the Sioux Falls bars. Every time I'm pretty sure Dean has nailed them all, he finds another one. She has on underwear, basically, and he thinks my denim mini and cowboy boots are hooker clothes? Please. Double standard much? He's had a type lately, though. Long dark hair, dark eyes, lots of black eyeliner, short. In my more delusional moments, I believe his type looks like me. Then I come to my senses and realize I never enter his mind. Not like that. I'm just Janie, Bobby's neice, Sammy's best friend, the kid sister. Nobody to lust after, to want, to grab like he did this girl.

Holding her none too gently at the waist, he pushed her further into the room and kicked the door closed. He's always had good aim, and he needed it then since he never took his tongue out of her mouth long enough to look at the door.

And so here I sit on the floor of his closet, face still wet from the guilt of invading the privacy he holds dear, without a feasible exit, watching through the slats in the door as this chick takes off Dean's clothes, watching Dean take off hers. . . Watching.

I can't stop watching.

Uncle Bobby has warned me more than once about being in the room of the promiscuous twenty-two year old focus of my intense crush, but I don't think this particular scenario ever crossed his mind. Mine, either. In my mind, Dean catches me in his room, and it's my waist he grabs, my shirt he hurriedly pulls over my head, my lips he kisses. My uncle's biggest fear in having the boys and me in the same house, largely unsupervised, is my greatest wish. I wish it was my body he was crawling over, I wish it was my hands lifting his shirt. . .

"I knew it," I breathe when I see the dimples above his ass. I throw my hands up to cover my mouth, sure that he's heard me. If he was any less occupied, he would have. But, damn, I knew he'd have those dimples. I want to lick them. He flips over to let her pull off his jeans and reveals his abs. I want to lick those, too.

The girl tosses the jeans, and they land with a thump against the closet door. My fear of imminent and inevitible discovery is immediately overwhelmed by the most crippling moment of jealousy I have ever felt. I need to find out who she is so I can find her and break her fucking jaw. Let's see her do that when her mouth is wired shut.

It's true that other than a few kisses and one brave soul willing to risk life and limb to cop a feel in sophomore year, I am largely untouched by any hands not my own. Sammy's occassional presence would have seen to that, but Dean's obvious and very public displays of disapproval of any guy who attmepted to date me are the stuff of legend at my high school. However, that's not to say that I am uninformed of the things that boys and girls do.

It is also true that I am painfully aware of the fact that Dean is very practiced in the things that boys and girls do. I have friends, those friends have older sisters, aunts, cousins. I live in the house with him, for God's sake. The lines leading to his room or to the backseat of the Impala are long. I've never heard anyone complaining. So I know he fucks around, I know what he does.

None of that means that I want to see this chick give him head. Completely unprepared for this. But I can't look away. I've watched porn, I knew what I would see. But he's big. She can't take him all. After a moment, I don't even see her. I see him, everything about him. I see the tightening of his jaw, of his abs, of his fist in her hair. I hear his breathing deepen then speed up. I hear him tell her to stop.

"Come here," he says, voice all grit and gravel. It's the first time I've heard that voice from him, and it makes me tremble.

She raises her head, and I am grateful that my perspective shows me more of him than of her. I just know that there must be a look of smug satisfaction on her face. I think there would be on mine. He still has a hold of her hair, and he uses it to lead her up his body until she straddles his hips. She is still low, close to him, and they kiss. Deeply and hard. No real tenderness here, different from the way I imagine moments like this with him.

She sits and reaches a hand to grip and guide him. He raises a knee, his foot flat on the mattress, and with one quick stroke he's inside her.

Anger flares again but is almost immediately replaced with resignation. Why hate her? How can I? She doesn't know that he is loved, that my heart claims him for myself. Hell, he doesn't know that either. She's only doing what I would, if given the chance. Why would she pass him up?

She begins to move slowly, I wonder if to get used to him, the size of him. I have no way of knowing, but it seems to make sense. He becomes impatient fast; I can see his fingers opening and closing on her waist, moving to grab her ass. When she lets her head fall, hair streaming down her back, he speeds up. She plays with her breasts, makes humming sounds when he grinds into her, gasps when his fingers move to her clit. I'm tempted to do the same to myself, pretending as I always do that my fingers are his, but I don't want the sound and sight of this girl to be linked forever with the fantasy.

Becoming more aggressive, she gets louder. He meets her thrust for thrust, harder, deeper. He groans each time they fully connect, and when she comes he pulls her mouth down to him again. Keeping her in place with an arm tight around her middle, he finds his own release as he pounds into her with both feet giving him leverage.

"Oh, fuck, Janie!"

Both the girl and I are stock still, both shocked by the same thing, though I suspect for different reasons.

He called her Janie.

He called my name. He was thinking of me the way I always think of him. But he was inside another girl at the time. Is that a good thing?

No, I don't think so. But despite myself, it gives me hope.

"My name is Jackie," she says, doing an admirable job of beating back the anger and embarrassment his slip up must have brought her. I hate her a little less, but I feel sorry for her lack of self-respect. She's acting like it happens all the time. It makes me sad to think that it might. She rolls off of Dean, gets out of bed and away from him. "Not Janie."

She walks past him, completely comfortable in her nakedness.

"Yeah. Not Janie," he sighs, running his hand down his sweaty face, looking disappointed and a little ashamed.

I decide right now, in this moment, that he'll never know I heard that. He'll never know I saw any of this. He'll never know I was here. This is my secret, just for me on the long nights, on the hopeless days, on the days when he pretends I'm not there, and in the moments when I think he can do no wrong.

I'll never tell a soul what I saw through the cracks. I'll keep this with all the other things he doesn't know.


End file.
